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It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s
eyes, farther from the earth than he had ever seen them be-
fore; there was no wind; and the sombre shadows thrown
by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral and death-
like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having
availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up
in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had,
sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the
crevices in the shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred
the door. One timid look around—one moment’s pause of
hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in the
open street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither
to fly.
He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went
out, toiling up the hill. He took the same route; and arriving
at a footpath across the fields: which he knew, after some
distance, led out again into the road; struck into it, and
walked quickly on.
Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he
had trotted beside Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to
the workhouse from the farm. His way lay directly in front
of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he bethought
himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had
come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of
time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very
little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its in-